Blaze! The Christmas Journey Read online

  The Eastern newspapers made much of gunfights and shootouts in the West, giving the impression that everyone packed a gun and was ready to use it. This was in fact far from the truth. It was prudent to carry protection when out alone, riding a lonesome trail, or to have a rifle over the hearth if yours was a remote homestead. But the average person, traveling by public conveyance such as a train or taking care of business or shopping in town, felt little need to go armed.

  That did not apply to the Third Class coach up ahead. Tongues of saffron flame spat return fire from the windows of that coach. However, it's difficult to hit anything from aboard a moving train especially when your targets are whooping it up and dodging, making of themselves nearly impossible targets.

  The Apaches drew back from the Third Class coach. As their ponies raced them along, their war whoops intensified. More gunfire. The two Indians in the lead fired repeating rifles. A third had a bow and arrow.

  The fourth Indian, the oldest among them, brought up the rear, riding hard enough to be a part of this war party although J.D. got the impression that the elder's heart just wasn't in it, though he certainly appeared and sounded fierce and dangerous. J.D. stopped thinking about that. There were more important things to consider—like staying alive!

  In the excitement, the Waddell brothers had skedaddled. They were nowhere to be seen.

  J.D. said, "Kate, how crazy are you?"

  Another arrow shattered window glass to embed itself high in the woodwork, quivering near the first arrow.

  Kate said, "You have to ask me that after being married to me for how many years? Damn, J.D. I'm crazy enough to go along with whatever you've got in mind. So let's hear it."

  "Come on."

  He duck-walked his way to the glass-topped doorway at the end of the car. Kate stayed with him. Moments later they stood together in the enclosed areaway between the coaches. The rattling rumble of steel wheels over the tracks was rolling thunder.

  J.D. jerked aside the accordion-like partition that revealed the outside ladder leading to the roof of the middle coach. He glanced in the direction of the door that led to the Pullman car. As he hurriedly ascended the ladder, he glimpsed Mrs. Mitchell and Reverend Sullivan, visible beyond the glass of the passageway. The woman's concerned features were pressed to the glass, while the preacher struggled to reach around her, fumbling for the door handle.

  Then J.D. was on the roof, with Kate right behind him. They stretched out flat. Each used their left arm to remain steady atop the wildly swaying, rocking train while filling their right hand with a six-shooter. They sized up the situation from their new vantage point.

  The Apaches, unaware on their position, made perfect targets.

  Kate said, "Seems a shame to be shooting people right before Christmas."

  J.D. wasn't sure he heard her right through the wind, the locomotive noise and the war whoops.

  "Babe, they're trying to kill us."

  An arrow arced through the air high overhead.

  Kate said, "I don't think so. Seems like they're aiming high on purpose. They didn't hit anyone inside the coach."

  "So far."

  "I don't get it either, J.D., but they're just funnin' with us."

  "Some fun."

  The Apaches could indeed be seen laughing among themselves as they rode.

  It was often claimed that Indians never laughed but J.D. knew firsthand that was a myth. The fact was that Indians didn't have a whole lot to laugh about. Given the way the Indian wars had gone, they did not have anything to laugh about! But yes, this particular "war party" appeared to be engaging in grand sport, not a bloodthirsty assault.

  Kate spent several moments taking extreme care to aim with her revolver. She squeezed the trigger.

  A rifle flew from the grip of one of the Apaches. This resulted in the other braves laughing uproariously at their brother as they continued storming alongside the train, now pointing at the couple riding upon its rooftop.

  "I wonder," said Kate, "what Jesus would do at a time like this."

  J.D. muttered, "I don't recall that feller ever finding himself under attack by a pack of bloodthirsty Apaches."

  Then the preacher appeared, having climbed the ladder to join them. Reverend Sullivan had somehow managed to acquire a rifle. His face was flushed.

  "Let me at 'em!"

  He raised the rifle. He fired and missed.

  The commanding bark of his rifle erased the Indians' sense of humor.

  Kate said, "Hold up, Rev. We think they're just funnin'. The train'll outrun 'em and they'll fall back. I don't think they mean us harm."

  The preacher chambered a fresh shell. His features flushed not from the abrasive cold of the cutting wind atop the coach, twisting almost beyond recognition with raw fury. He pegged off another shot that missed. He cursed angrily. Chambered another shell.

  "I'm not killing them!" He shouted to be heard through the wind and the racket of the rushing train. "These heathen require benevolence!"

  "There you go," said Kate tentatively.

  J.D., experienced enough to half accept his wife's notions no matter how impractical or wrongheaded they might at first seem, shouted, "Kate could be right, preacher man. Lower the gun and let's see what happens."

  "Nonsense!" shouted Sullivan. "I am atoning them. An act of kindness, you fool, offering blood atonement to heathen lost souls for their sins so they might yet enjoy eternal happiness!" The preacher raised his face and his voice to the heavens. "Oh, Lord! Help me to save these sinners from the cold and darkness."

  Before J.D. or Kate could stop him, the preacher raised his rifle and lowered an eye to sight along its barrel. He fired again.

  One of the braves flung up his arms and toppled from his horse.

  Chapter 18

  When he saw the rifleman stand atop the train aiming and fire, when Red Feather toppled from his pony, Iron Eyes knew it was time to end this foolishness. He told himself he should never have given in to these young bucks in the first place and now they had the smell of blood in their nostrils, igniting their spirits, and what had begun as a lark would become deadly. Iron Eyes wished he and his braves were still soaking in the hot springs; that they'd never charged after this iron horse and its coaches full of white eyes.

  Red Feather rose from where he'd landed upon the ground after being shot from his pony. The pony circled around, trotting back to him. Iron Eyes noted the bloody fabric of Red Feather's shirt where the bullet had grazed his side.

  "How bad is it?"

  Red Feather remounted. "It is nothing. I have been injured worse many times." He signaled with his knees to his pony, which took off at a fast gallop to catch up with the others.

  Iron Eyes did the same. The difference was that his steed was faster than Red Feather's pony. Iron Eyes passed Red Feather. Deer Killer and Walking Backwards were still riding ahead, abreast of the middle car.

  He'd known things would go wrong when the man and woman first appeared. His braves were too concerned with their bravado and the excitement to even notice the most remarkable sight of a slender blonde and her husky male partner, each stretching flat side-by-side upon the roof of the coach. The woman had shot the bow and arrow from the hands of Walking Backwards! The couple atop the train were not average frightened passengers, nor was it like the undisciplined shooting of the men in the first car. The woman was an expert shot, shooting the bow and arrow from a horseman's hands from atop a moving train. This being so, Iron Eyes wondered why did she not shoot to kill?

  Then the rifleman joined in and everything changed. He had intended to shoot Red Feather dead but missed. The man with the rifle needed to be stopped!

  Racing alongside the train, Iron Eyes extended both arms, reaching outward and up until his fingers grasped at the ornamental wrought iron of the Pullman car's rear observation deck. He may have been older than his braves but he wondered if any of them could match the feat he performed when he allowed the mighty forward momentum of the train to jerk h
im from his mount. He used the iron grillwork as a ladder, drawing himself up. Moments later, he too gained the roof.

  And there they were! The man and woman, stretched out. The man with the rifle stood near them.

  Iron Eyes charged forward.

  They became aware of his approach. The man and woman shifted onto their sides, tracking their six-guns in his direction. The rifleman swung the Winchester on Iron Eyes, finger on the trigger, mad hate in his eyes.

  The train suddenly negotiated a sharp curve.

  The four of them were almost swept off the train. The rifleman knelt, the rifle in one hand—finger remaining curled around the trigger—his other hand bracing the roof for support. The couple too had no choice but to grasp whatever they could to keep from sliding over.

  Iron Eyes alone remained standing, only slightly bending his knees to maintain his balance. While his braves continued to race alongside the train, observing the confrontation, he flung himself at the rifleman, grabbing for the Winchester.

  * * *

  Kate knew she had no choice.

  The swaying of the train car had stabilized after that surprising curve that had almost pitched them off. With their hold on the curvature of the roof renewed, she and J.D. were able to swing their six-guns around on the Apache.

  Kate's senses flared with impressions and decisions. Indians paced the train on horseback, their ponies not yet tiring in the least. Gunfire peppered the air. The passing prairie was a fast-moving blur on the periphery of her senses.

  The Apache and the preacher were evenly matched physically and while the Indian was in better physical condition, Reverend Sullivan was animated by the wild passion of his madness. They fought over the rifle, forcing it first one way and then the other, each trying to angle the barrel around so as to gain control of the trigger and thus blow off the other's head.

  As she got the Indian in her sights, Kate knew there would be no danger of hitting Sullivan by mistake at this range. She didn't want to kill the Apache either! Not on Christmas Eve. God knew she would much rather just buffalo him with a quick knock over the head, as she had with Mrs. Mitchell back in Horseshoe. But there was no time. It had to be quick. She had to take this man's life.

  J.D. was also pulling down on the Indian, who was about to—

  The speeding train took another curve way too fast, attempting to outrun the Indians. This time, J.D. and Kate were swept off the roof.

  Chapter 19

  Falling from this train, J.D. landed on the ground in a sideways roll, his momentum carrying him down a short slope, away from the rails without actually having to hit at a dead stop. Kate landed on her backside. She let out a caterwaul that could be heard above the racket of the train.

  Then the train was chugging away from them.

  In his years traversing the continent since leaving home as a kid, J.D. had more than once "ridden the rails." He had never been a hobo. Always lived by earning an honest dollar. But sometimes when a hankerin' called, you had to get from one point to another faster than horsepower alone allowed and you didn't have dinero to buy a ducat.

  It had been a decade or more since he'd caught a train on the run. He'd slept in boxcars. He'd dodged the railroad bulls whose job it was to dissuade men with physical force from riding the rails. During those times, J.D. learned many things about that life. Jumping a train was not always easy. Some lost limbs or had been killed due to a single misstep or a fraction of time miscalculated. He learned which corner inside the empty boxcar provided the safest point from which to observe new boarders along the way who could be of an unsavory sort. On clear days it was not uncommon to ride atop the boxcar roof of a freight as it barreled along, basking in the warm sunshine while being effortlessly transported cross-country.

  But there were hazards to riding atop train cars, one of them being the danger of a sharp curve or a sudden gust of wind. He had learned long ago, if that happened to land in a way that would (hopefully!) minimize physical injury.

  J.D. got to his feet, using his hat to bat away the dirt and dust from his britches. He walked over to where Kate remained seated upon the ground.

  "You okay, hon?"

  "I'll live. This may be the first time in my life that I'm grateful for my big butt."

  J.D. said, automatically but not insincerely, "Aw honey, your butt isn't—"

  Kate started to rise with a wince.

  "Oh, shut up. I'm just saying that it cushioned the landing but she's going to be black and blue tomorrow."

  He extended a hand. "Here, let me—"

  She waved him aside and regained her footing.

  They gazed down the track. The train steamed off into the distance with the Indians in pursuit.

  The last J.D. saw of the preacher and the Apache, before the lengthening distance rendered them indiscernible, was the two men locked in mortal close-quarters combat atop the speeding train. The Apache's left was extended, choking the preacher, while his right was trying to slash down with the knife. The preacher struggled to keep the knife at bay while the other hand had the Indian by the throat.

  A chill breeze was picking up across the desert. The clouds had become lower, darker and closer. J.D. figured the best course of action would be best to address this twist of fate as if nothing was seriously wrong.

  He said, "Dang if that preach isn't something else. Figure he'll beat that Indian or t'other way around?"

  Kate stared for some time in silence after the dissipating plume of coal smoke.

  She said, "Well well. This is certainly a fine kettle of fish."

  "Uh, like I was saying, hon, about that preacher—"

  "Talk about us," Kate instructed with no show of patience. "I reckon that business of climbing up on the roof of the train wasn't such a hot idea after all, was it, hon?" She rolled her eyes. "And I went along with it!"

  J.D. said, "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Gave us a clear field of fire. But then you started in with that that 'oh but we can't kill the Indians because it's Christmas' routine."

  She whirled to face him.

  "Do not blame me, Jehoram Delfonso. At least Mrs. Mitchell is still on the train. But aren't you forgetting about two brothers named Waddell and a reward?"

  "Aw Katy, the Waddells are too stupid and mean to get very far. We'll track 'em down. This is just a setback."

  "Some setback."

  A small, approaching dark speck, a quarter mile down the track, caught J.D.'s attention. Someone approaching on foot.

  He said, "Look."

  It was Mrs. Mitchell.

  A dazed look in her eyes. Her traveling attire scuffed and smudged with dirt. She and Kate exchanged a warm hug.

  "Praise the Lord! I saw you two fall off the train. I was hoping I could find you. I'd die out here alone!"

  Kate said, "What happened?"

  "Well, I certainly wasn't going to let another Indian leap onto the train. The first one used the grillwork on the observation deck. I went back and sure enough, another of the red rascals was trying to board the same way. We struggled and he settled back on his pony and gave up trying to board. But he yanked me off the train and left me in the dust and, well, here I am."

  "Thank goodness, you're alive."

  "Yes, but my son..." Mrs. Mitchell studied the far horizon and the low, gun-metal gray clouds. "It's Christmas Eve! We would have made it to Lordsburg on the train but now...we'll never make it there before...before the execution." She surveyed the nothingness surrounding them. "Can we even survive out here? We're in the middle of nowhere."

  J.D. stared off down the rails in the direction taken by the train.

  "We'll follow the tracks. There'll be a whistle stop or two between here and Lordsburg. We'll find shelter. Maybe get us a ride to Lordsburg."

  Kate said, "On Christmas Eve?"

  This irritated J.D. but he held himself in check. It wasn't like Kate to be negative. She was usually the one lighting the fire under him. They were both testy. Who wouldn't be? And Kate
was right.

  So was Mrs. Mitchell.

  They started to trudge along the tracks.

  J.D. said, "Well, it could be worse. It could be snowing."

  As if on cue, the first wintry, feathery flakes of white began falling, riding in on a frigid blast of wind that announced this was only the beginning.

  Chapter 20

  East Texas. 1859.

  The first time Kate ever encountered snow was on a Christmas morning when she was four years old.

  She and her three siblings—her older brothers Carter (age: 7), Sam (age 6) and Cole (age: 5)—had opened their modest but treasured presents under the tree. The family had gathered. Adults were busy—the men talking cattle and weather, the women in the kitchen—and so the children were left to play.

  Except that they weren't playing! As usual, the boys' idea of playing quickly turned to teasing little Kate. Carter, the oldest, could be the meanest, always calling her "shrimp" and the like. Never letting her tag along when the boys went off fishing.

  She always had to stay behind with Ma when the boys took off with their father. Oh, she loved Ma. But she hated being stuck indoors. She hated chores. She hated cooking. She wanted to go with the men, adventuring in the great world beyond.

  The family awoke that morning to a light dusting of snow; not all that common, although it was known to snow lightly on occasion. Most of the time, though, a winter storm in East Texas more than likely meant nothing but cold, driving rain and sleet.

  Before the children had been allowed to open their presents, Ma insisted that they all step outside to feel the briskness of the morning. Sunlight danced off the fallen snow, making it seem as if the dusting of snow had been sprinkled with diamonds.

  "Gracious, isn't it beautiful!" said Ma. "And pure, like God has given us the world scrubbed clean as new. Thank you, God, for this beautiful day."